The Linnet's Wings The Winter´s Tale, Ravens and Robins - Page 27

The Linnet´s Wings bris. Sticks. Shadows. Leaves buried under the snows. Feeling the sun on my face grown eternal. All winter I dared not imagine. Why should I. Though I might tell you many untruths if you asked many things. Which you never do. Entering this house at dawn as though it were merely an evening passed over. Too much drink in the tavern. Falling asleep across a table. Awakening with the light. Convenient, I suppose. The guns in the distance emptying like small thunders. I say nothing under the circumstances. Try not to wring my hands. But how little you know of the cellars, dear Petrov. Potatoes in sacks pushing twisted knots. Pressing for- ward in their cycle. My own a swift timeless span. Swirling then recumbent. Down on my knees. Crumpled. Silent. In the small chamber where a bed leans into the wall. Cracking. Green as peeled peas. A silly formality. Moving of the bed each morning. It’s an excursion, you say, when night comes and it is to be moved again. Knocked to the floor. Straw ticking scratching my skin as you climb onto me. Dead. Putrified. Exhausted. How filthy the straw. Where are the thick lap robes. A hamper basket of sturdy foods. Just punishment arising from smoke fires. The whole of you, dear Petrov. A study. The snows that scrape you raw. Black- en your teeth. Frost-burn the hair off your head. The lack of sleep. Always. Or so you say. And bad food. You seem to fatten well enough. At least there is a food source. Somewhere. Scarcer and scarcer here. I bridle my horse for the journey to market. Pittance for a pound of half-flung bird. Fresh if I’m early. Still bleeding. Thinking of escape. Never a moment goes by. Long exclusions will do this. I’m not bereft. Just thinking. Always thinking. My time set by the stars and the winds hugging the damp. --- 27